


These Captive Stars

by darlingred1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingred1/pseuds/darlingred1
Summary: Over the centuries Aziraphale learned many things about the human form, as well as his own, and among his lessons was this: most humans do not have thighs so exquisitely sensitive as his.(Aziraphale has very sensitive inner thighs. Crowley finds out, and things get smutty but also incredibly sappy.)





	These Captive Stars

Crowley is visibly happy. It doesn’t happen often enough, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

Which is not to say that Crowley is _never_ happy. He is, especially now that the world hasn’t ended and Hell has opted to ignore him for the foreseeable future.

But he so rarely _shows _it. His smiles are lined with jagged edges and the promise of venom, the sort of smile that makes a person take a large step back and is accompanied by the ghost-touch of pain.

Aziraphale has long since grown immune to those smiles, of course. Instead, it’s the genuinely happy, beaming smiles—the ones that could breathe sunlight through the branches of a pitch-dark forest and inspire sonnets in even the most unpoetic of folk—that make him ache. Like the painful yet deeply satisfying prod of a healing bruise.

“Give it here,” Crowley is saying, arm reached towards the passenger seat where Aziraphale is fiddling with his mobile phone. “You must’ve done it wrong.”

“Oh, but how could I? They’re so very intuitive, these things. Isn’t that what you said?”

“All right. You’ve made your point.” Crowley is clearly trying to tamp down on his good mood, tightening his lips so as not to smile and layering disapproval over the cheer in his voice. He is failing. “No mobile for you. Even if I’m sure you’d like the texting once you got the hang of it.”

He makes another swipe for his phone in Aziraphale’s hands. As with all the ones before, it is half-hearted and easily evaded. This time, rather than returning his arm to his side of the car, he lowers it and brushes two of his knuckles along the side of Aziraphale’s leg. It’s a brief, idle touch, perhaps even accidental.

Aziraphale practically throws himself against the door to get away from it, letting out an instinctive squeak of alarm. He regrets it even as he’s doing it, but by then the damage is already inflicted.

Crowley retreats with a full-body cringe, his badly hidden cheer shrivelling away. Darkness returns to the forest floor, and the sonnets burn to ash. Silence falls, heavy with bitterness and shame.

Aziraphale has no excuse, although he certainly knows why he did it. It’s the same reason he fights (with varying degrees of success) a similar overreaction with every tailor he has ever had and, centuries ago, with the unfortunate manservant who sought to check the fit of Aziraphale’s hose and breeches.

But that’s not exactly something he wants to share with Crowley in this moment, in the confines of the Bentley and with Crowley scowling out the windscreen with such a black, stormy expression that Aziraphale shivers and hunches as though in anticipation of an oncoming downpour.

Aziraphale sets Crowley’s phone gingerly on the sliver of open seat beside him. “Well, if that’s the case,” he says, in what he hopes is the same teasing tone as before, “then perhaps you should’ve shown me the texting function, not the satnav.”

Crowley’s scowl darkens further. He jerks the wheel to one side, and Aziraphale clings to whatever he can reach as the car swerves onto a side street.

“Not much to show,” Crowley mutters, barely audible. “Don’t have anyone to text, do I?”

It’s been months now since Aziraphale has been well and truly furious with himself, but apparently he has not forgotten how.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t remember precisely where or when he first discovered it. It was before Rome, certainly, and someplace where the fashion of the time was loose, long clothing with bare legs beneath. (Which was most places, back then, hence the uncertainty.)

He recalls a hot night and a dimly lit room, and something or other required him to wipe his palm on the fabric draped over his thigh. What was intended as a short, cursory swipe soon became a lengthy, firm rubbing from his knee to his groin.

_Oh_, he thought. _Oh, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? What wonderful things these human bodies are._

He spared a moment to admire the Almighty’s wisdom before he continued exploring.

He didn’t have genitals then, although a mere ten minutes later he opted to change that. He manifested a rather fine-looking cock if he did say so himself: stout with a pleasing curve to the shaft and a dewy pink head that was revealed slowly, like a sunset, when he slid the foreskin back.

And once he had that, he quite forgot about his thighs. For the moment, at least.

Then came Rome, and one occasion when a handsome yet presumptuous man in the bathhouse laid his hand on Aziraphale’s upper leg and massaged the muscles beneath the skin, bringing Aziraphale to a state of—well, all right, he might as well be honest—_lust_ he hadn’t known possible.

Then many years later, the nineteenth century arrived, and with it such wanton (and occasionally public) debauchery on Aziraphale’s part that he still blushes about it more than two centuries later.

In that time he learned many things about the human form, as well as his own, and among his lessons was this: most humans do not have thighs so exquisitely sensitive as his.

Any touch, accidental or purposeful, could set his whole body alight like a match held to a stack of straw. A strong kneading caress on the fleshiest inner portion could usher him from uninterested to orgasm in around twenty minutes with no other stimulation. (It’s never an especially satisfying orgasm, but the journey to it is maddeningly rapturous in a way that simply stroking his cock is not.)

A second lesson: every human has their own individual sensitivities and preferences, unique even amongst themselves.

A young man Aziraphale became acquainted with at Portland Place loved his earlobes to be kissed. Another struggled to orgasm if his nipples hadn’t been toyed with to the point of rawness. Yet another could come from nothing but having his toes sucked.

It was yet another thing to praise about the Almighty’s clever creation of man, and Aziraphale grew deeply fond of his corporation’s little oddity, even if it meant he tended to instinctively protect his thighs the way that animals protected their vulnerable underbellies.

But it isn’t really the sort of thing that he talks about with anyone. His lovers learned through exploration or through subtle hinting in Aziraphale’s body language.

Just the thought of giving voice to his biological quirk, to saying—and to Crowley of all people—_Did you know that touching my thigh turns me on? Oh yes. I can come from it, in fact_ is nearly enough to drive him to hole up in his bookshop for the better part of a decade.

* * *

Their relationship is fragile still, in the way that the butterfly first emerging from the chrysalis is fragile. It is changed and new, and the world it’s waking to is the same and yet entirely different.

Aziraphale and Crowley do many of the things they used to. They have dinner; they go to galleries and exhibitions and the theatre; they share good wine and single-malt scotch.

But now there is no reason for Aziraphale to deny their friendship. There is no reason to pretend he doesn’t notice Crowley gazing at him sometimes like Aziraphale is the sun around which his one-demon universe revolves. There is no reason to stop himself from looking at Crowley the same way.

The spider’s-silk thread that had been drawn between them for centuries was weaving thicker and more permanent with every interaction. And now in one silly overreaction Aziraphale has cut his hand through the centre of it, leaving the severed ends waving sadly in the space between them.

He has to fix this. He has to do…_something_, for goodness sake, before the damage spreads beyond repair.

“You’re sure about this?” Crowley says, for what is probably the fourth time in as many minutes.

It’s a bit late for second thoughts now. They’ve already taken their seats in the darkened cinema, and Crowley has got himself a small box of popcorn and a fizzy drink. Aziraphale can’t read his mood, but it doesn’t seem as dour as when he dropped Aziraphale off at the bookshop two days ago after the…incident in the car.

“I don’t actually mind films, you know,” Aziraphale says. “Some of them are quite good, if a bit loud.”

“You like charming Shakespeare adaptations and artsy indie flicks. With any luck, this one’ll be nonstop explosions and gunfights.”

Aziraphale knows. That’s why he chose it. Crowley has a penchant for nonstop explosions and gunfights. They make him snigger and crow things like _Have you ever seen such rubbish fire? _and _Oh right, like a _shoulder wound_ is gonna bleed that much_.

“This was my suggestion, if you recall,” Aziraphale reminds him. “I could’ve chosen something different if I wanted.”

Crowley says nothing to that, only settles a little deeper into his seat.

They aren’t the only ones here to see this particular film. A younger couple had already secured the best seats in the room, perfectly in the middle, before Aziraphale and Crowley arrived. Aziraphale pays them little attention until, suddenly, just before the film begins, both of them stand and shuffle out, carrying all their belongings and partially eaten treats with them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly.

“What? Not my fault they decided to see something else instead. But since they’re gone…”

Popcorn and drink in hand, Crowley winds through the rows until he’s taken one of their spots. Sighing—more for show than anything—Aziraphale follows and takes the other spot for himself.

Crowley grins at him, and the images now flickering on the large screen light his face and reflect in his sunglasses. He seems to glow for a moment, looking almost ethereal, and although Aziraphale’s chest goes tight, he manages to smile back.

_I love him_, Aziraphale thinks, not for the first time or even the fiftieth. _If I could take him into myself, keep him from the smoke clouds of Hell that darken his world even now, I would. I would offer him everything he doesn’t have the words to ask for._

Crowley turns back to the screen, and after one last lingering stare, Aziraphale does the same.

The film starts with a bang and an over-violent death, and it goes swiftly downwards from there.

Crowley still has his popcorn, so his barks of amusement are muffled as he chews. The sounds of it crunching between his teeth, not to mention the smell that permeates the entire building, make Aziraphale long for a box of his own. It’s never as delicious as he thinks it will be, especially in these sorts of run-down cinemas that Crowley favours, so although he’s long since learned to avoid the disappointment of cold, stale, flavourless—or, worse, burnt—popcorn, the urge is still there.

Crowley, who seems to have a sixth sense for Aziraphale’s culinary urges, switches hands and dangles the popcorn box over the armrest separating his seat from Aziraphale’s.

“Want some? It’s not bad.”

Aziraphale means to scoop out only a few kernels, but Crowley shoves the whole thing into Aziraphale’s grasp and goes on to transfer his drink within Aziraphale’s reach as well.

Aziraphale aches with fondness. It swamps him like a rising tide, pressing in on him, making him feel small and trifling in the wake of its breadth and power.

_I have to act_, he thinks. He has been taking for far too long; it’s time to give. He has to do more than fix the severed thread; he has to fortify it so it can’t be broken so thoughtlessly again.

But how?

He pops a kernel into his mouth. Crowley is right: it isn’t bad. It’s buttered, at least, which is an improvement over the last time they visited the cinema together.

Then he rests the box on his right knee, the one farthest from Crowley. If Crowley reaches for it—and he will, even if it takes a while; Crowley feels about popcorn the way that Aziraphale feels about mille-feuille—then Aziraphale will…

What? Hold his hand, perhaps, to show him that Aziraphale has no qualms about touching him and in fact enjoys it a great deal. That could work. Although it could just as well read to Crowley as an insult, precisely the sort of over-the-top emotional gesture intended to prove a point that Crowley despises so very—

Crowley reaches across the armrest, and Aziraphale, not expecting it so soon, jerks in surprise.

With a visible flinch, Crowley begins to snatch his hand back. Aziraphale grabs it instead and, relying on instinct, pins it to his own left thigh.

Then he realises what he has done and feels like he is going to blush and shudder right out of his skin. He left this sort of boldness behind ages ago, and he’s never applied it to Crowley. He never felt safe enough to.

_Well_, he thinks with a shaky inhale, _nothing for it now. _He keeps his hand where it is, trapping Crowley’s against his trouser leg, and with his opposite one he passes the popcorn box back as calmly as he can.

Crowley doesn’t take it at first, too busy staring at Aziraphale like he’s gone mad. Crowley’s eyebrows are arched high above his glasses; his jaw is dropped slightly. Aziraphale wants to slump low in his seat, or perhaps huddle underneath it so no one can see when he blushes himself right into flames.

“Angel,” Crowley says. “Er…all right?”

Aziraphale thinks, _Definitely not_, but says, “Perfectly.” He wiggles the popcorn box. “You wanted this, yes?”

Crowley closes his mouth. In front of them, the film screen goes suddenly bright, lighting up Crowley’s face and giving Aziraphale an uninhibited view of Crowley’s throat bobbing alluringly as he swallows.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, his voice strangely thick. “This is what I wanted.” He still doesn’t take the popcorn.

_Oh, Lord. _Aziraphale sends a quick apology to the Almighty for the blasphemous thought, but he hopes that She would understand, given the circumstances. He tightens his grip on Crowley’s hand, inadvertently digging it further into his thigh.

Pleasure sparks, and Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath. It’s not quite the right place, too near the knee and too much towards the middle for it to feel as good as he knows it can, but it’s close enough. His entire body stirs, like little ripples on a placid lake as the life below rises to the top.

Crowley curls his fingers, sinking the tips into the skin beneath Aziraphale’s trousers. Aziraphale twitches in his seat and bites his lip. Still watching intently, Crowley licks his own, leaving a faint sheen behind that makes Aziraphale swell with longing.

He can’t help it. He nudges Crowley’s hand up and a few inches to the side, until it’s pressing on that fleshy sensitive bit of his inner thigh. Pleasure sparks again, deeper and sweeter, and Aziraphale tips his head back and arches into it.

“Ngk,” Crowley says, as the popcorn falls to the floor. Neither of them try to catch it.

Aziraphale arches again and pushes even more firmly down on Crowley’s hand, shoving it into his thigh until it almost hurts. His legs are wide; his cock is hardening. Even if they weren’t alone, Aziraphale suspects he would be just as eager.

Something on the screen booms, startling Aziraphale, but if Crowley notices, he doesn’t show it. He’s started to figure it out, it seems. He kneads at the skin beneath the fabric, massaging with his fingertips and grinding down with the heel of his hand.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs. The pleasure echoes in his cock, makes it pulse and stiffen further.

“Fuck,” Crowley says, sounding choked. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but from the tilt of his head Aziraphale can tell he’s looking downwards, probably right at the growing bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers. “Can I…?”

He tries to slide his grip upwards, but Aziraphale holds it in place.

“No need.” Aziraphale feels breathless and shivery, and he sounds it too.

“Fucking _Heaven_,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. The little wrinkle between his eyebrows speaks of pain, but his voice tells a different tale. “You…”

“Please. Please, just keep…”

Crowley does. He keeps rubbing until Aziraphale is half out of his mind with it, as incapable of holding in his quiet moans as he is of stopping himself from squirming in his seat. Even when Aziraphale lets go in favour of scrabbling at the armrest, Crowley keeps squeezing the flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh like he’s moulding clay, softening and weakening it so he can do whatever he likes with it, make it his.

Minutes pass. The film lets loose a torrent of booms and screams and screeches, and it lights up the cinema in an array of colours, and through it all Crowley watches Aziraphale like he’s memorising every inch of him, every movement, every sound. His glasses slip lower and lower on his nose, until his golden eyes are peeking above the rims.

Aziraphale stares into them as he comes, whimpering softly. It’s a weak orgasm, but as always the pleasure of the journey makes up for its lacklustre conclusion.

And even if it didn’t, Crowley’s expression would go a long way in assuaging any disappointment. It’s awe and devastation, euphoria and agony, wrapped in one. It burns as hot as the fires of Hell and glints as brightly as the holiest waters of Heaven.

It’s the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen.

“Can you walk?” Crowley says, his hand going still. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“Walk?” Aziraphale has made something of a mess of himself, but he isn’t that bad off. He does away with the mess with a wave of his arm. He half expects for a splinter of shame to strike the core of him now that his sense has returned, but the only thing he feels is content. “Why? The film isn’t over. And…oh, dear, the popcorn.”

“If you think I care more about that than I do getting my hands on you, you’re even stupider than I thought.”

_To say nothing of getting _my _hands on _you, Aziraphale thinks. “Well, if you put it that way…”

* * *

Crowley drives like a demon with a death wish on the best of days. Today he drives like he is Death himself, immune to the rules to which the rest of the universe is bound and whose sole purpose is to endanger as many humans as possible.

And he does it all with one hand on Aziraphale’s leg, which somehow manages to be more distracting than the reckless way Crowley is hurtling the Bentley through the streets of London.

“If we could arrive safely,” Aziraphale says, trying to remain calm, “and in one piece—”

“We’ll get there just fine,” Crowley growls.

His hand flexes. It’s not pressing down. In fact, it’s barely resting on Aziraphale’s thigh at all, but the proprietary nature of the gesture does Aziraphale’s head in, more than making up for the lack of stimulation.

“Then,” Crowley continues, “I’m taking you upstairs, to that ghastly thing you call a bed—”

“I’ve told you. It is a perfectly serviceable—”

“It is not. It’s an insult to whoever invented modern beds, and I’m going to make you come all over it.”

Aziraphale shuts up, his face going hot. He sinks lower in the passenger seat and covers Crowley’s hand with his, entwines their fingers.

Crowley makes a noise like he’s swallowed something too large for his throat. He spins the steering wheel wildly, the car veers and skids, and suddenly they’re coming to a stop in front of the bookshop, where an open parking spot just so happens to be waiting, even though Aziraphale knows for certain they were nowhere near Soho a moment ago.

“Come on,” Crowley says, throwing open the car door. “Get out. Is it unlocked?”

“It’s always unlocked for you.”

And it is. The bookshop’s door opens effortlessly when Crowley grabs it, and he ushers Aziraphale inside with an urgency that borders on desperation. Aziraphale would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it hopelessly erotic.

It gives him the little boost he needs to say, cheekily, as the door closes behind them, “We could’ve stayed, you know. I’ve always found public dalliances rather thrilling.”

“Nngh,” Crowley says, sounding faint.

Reining in the urge to grin, Aziraphale drags Crowley in by his shoulders and brings their mouths together.

They kiss for what seems like hours, swaying back and forth like they’re dancing, Aziraphale holding Crowley’s upper arms and Crowley cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley lets out small whimpery noises occasionally, and Aziraphale answers every one with a blissful moan of his own.

_I will love you until the very end_, he thinks, _and I will spend the rest of my existence making up for how very long it took me to understand it._

Crowley steps back eventually, and although Aziraphale is nowhere near finished with him, he lets Crowley go. Crowley’s sunglasses hang crooked on the tip of his nose, and his lips are wet and pink and parted so invitingly.

“Upstairs,” Crowley croaks. “Now.” Then, after a beat: “Please.”

“You know where it is,” Aziraphale says, his voice just as strangled. “I don’t know why—oh!”

Crowley wastes no time dragging him by the sleeve of his coat to the staircase and then up it. Their feet get a big jumbled halfway through, and they stumble, nearly sending them both quite painfully back where they came from.

Clinging to the railing with one hand while Crowley clings to his other one, Aziraphale finds himself giggling. At their clumsiness, the ridiculousness of the situation, and the sheer joy that’s bursting inside him. He feels like a flag in the wind, vibrant and free and buoyed magnificently against the topaz backdrop of the endless sky.

“Why are you laughing?” Crowley squawks, but then he’s chuckling too as they lean into each other, sharing the joy between them. “Hey, I’m trying to seduce you here.”

_That smile_, Aziraphale thinks. _Goodness, that smile. _It’s the glow of the moon over a smooth, glassy lake, the crisp pages of a well-cared-for-book.

He says, playfully, “I’m the one who’s already come, my dear. So if anything, I should think you’re the one in need of seducing.”

Crowley hisses and tugs at Aziraphale’s coat, trying again to climb the stairs. “Believe me, angel, that was all the seduction I need. Any more and I think it’s technically called ‘being a cock tease.’”

They manage the rest of the steps this time with no issues, and once they’re in what amounts to Aziraphale’s bedroom—not that he ever uses it as such—Crowley turns and slips Aziraphale’s coat off his shoulders. Treating it like a rare and precious article, Crowley smooths out the wrinkles that its removal might’ve caused and hangs it up neatly in Aziraphale’s wardrobe.

He follows suit with the bowtie and is working on Aziraphale’s waistcoat when Aziraphale, more than a little surprised, finally recalls that he is capable of speaking and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Undressing you. What does it look like?”

Crowley’s hands shake as they fumble with the buttons. His glasses are still crooked, just barely remaining on his nose, and thus Aziraphale can glimpse the frenzied look in his eyes, which seems to contradict the solemn, determined line of his lips.

“Well, yes. But—”

“Figured you’d prefer this,” says Crowley. “Always so bloody fussy about your clothes.”

“Oh, my dear.”

Suddenly Aziraphale’s heart seems too large for his body, swelling against the confines of his rib cage until he can feel every aching beat like the roar of a cannon. He snaps his fingers, miracles the rest of his clothing to who knows where, and hauls Crowley back into his arms.

Crowley’s moan rumbles against his chest, his mouth, an answering cannon strike.

Aziraphale adores him so very much and tells him so, or tries to, although it is rather difficult to be coherent when your bottom lip is between someone else’s teeth.

When he wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist, he encounters only bare skin. Whether this undressing is his doing or Crowley’s, he can’t say, but he approves all the same. He trails his hand along Crowley’s spine, up between his bony shoulder blades before reversing and dipping as low as the first few knobs of Crowley’s tailbone.

Crowley tears his mouth away with a strangled groan and—startling Aziraphale a great deal—shoves Aziraphale backwards. Aziraphale is quite certain they weren’t near the bed, yet when he falls back, he hits the mattress.

“If I knew,” Crowley says, crawling on top of him, more jerkily than the sinuous, serpentine movements Aziraphale might’ve expected, “that all I had to do was rub your leg and hang up your clothes…”

Aziraphale drags him down by the shoulders, and Crowley bends to oblige. His sunglasses finally give up the ghost and just barely miss plonking Aziraphale in the face, which makes them both giggle again.

“Sorry, sorry.” Crowley chucks the things off the side of the bed, and they clatter to the floor. “Forgot I—”

Aziraphale sits up and kisses him, holding Crowley’s nape and jaw gently. He puts every bit of love he has into it: every moment that Crowley has made him laugh over the millennia, the meals they’ve shared together, the encouragement that Crowley has heaped on him, all the assistance and support and the sense of safety that Crowley has offered.

And, of course, all the many, many times Aziraphale considered choosing Crowley over everything else, no matter the consequences, as well as the time that he finally did.

When he draws back, Crowley follows him, not to kiss him again, but just to breathe against his lips, “Angel.”

“My love.”

Crowley swallows audibly. “How long?”

It is, oddly enough, the one question Aziraphale doesn’t particularly want to answer. The pain and the shame, the wound they’ve left in him, are still quite raw. He strokes Crowley’s cheek. “Longer than I was willing to admit it. Much, much longer than I was…amenable to doing something about it.”

Crowley nods once, looking down. He rests his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s hips and then rakes them, not gently but not overly harshly either, down Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale gasps and jerks.

“And,” Crowley says, “thiss?”

“Thiss?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to mimic the hiss, but when Crowley’s hands creep back upwards, the heel digging firmly into the soft parts where Aziraphale is most sensitive, he can’t seem to help himself.

“Mm-hm. How long have you known you could do thiss?”

Aziraphale could protest that he isn’t the one _doing _anything, but it’s not really the moment to waste breath on quibbling over language. “Um… Even longer, I would say.”

Crowley lets out a low hiss and then rubs, kneading with his fingers, and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly on his back, arching helplessly into the touch. As much as he can, anyway, with Crowley still straddling his knees.

“Tell me,” says Crowley, stilling his hands.

Aziraphale blinks. “Tell you…what? It’s…a thing. Every human has one, it seems, whether it’s a particular body part or—”

“Yeah?” Crowley leans forward, practically looming. “You know what my ‘thing’ is?”

It’s the first opportunity Aziraphale has to truly look at him. His top half, anyway. Crowley is pale, smooth, and bony, like the most delicate porcelain. Aziraphale wants to suck his nipples, lick the faint shadow down the middle of his torso. For now, he settles for winding his arms around him, finding the knobbly tailbone beneath his skin, and fondling it.

Crowley shivers and—_oh, Lord…oh, dear, please forgive me, Lord—_angles his hips until he’s as good as inviting Aziraphale to touch his arse.

“What?” Aziraphale answers, breathless.

Crowley grips two fistfuls of Aziraphale’s outer thighs and gives them a gentle tug, baring his teeth. “_These_. All these centuries and every part of you I could be thinking about, but it was _these _that drove me mad. I wanted to learn every inch of them, sink my teeth into them, just sit in a chair and watch them _move _as you walk.”

Crowley bends even further forward, going up on his hands and knees, and when Aziraphale glances down between their bodies… _Oh, Heavens. That cock._ It’s long and veiny, the foreskin drawn back naturally and its red tip leaking. A dribble of precome falls and lands directly onto Aziraphale’s own prick, as if he aimed it so.

Aziraphale licks his lips, wanting to taste it. He reaches for it only to have his hand snatched away. “Crowley.”

“I had a plan,” Crowley says. “If we ever…if we ever. I was going to sit on your cock. I was going to ride you until we were both out of our minds, and I was going to hold your thighs for support so I could feel them work as you fucked me.”

That sounds wonderful. That sounds spectacular. “Yes. Yes, that—”

“But now all I want is to fuck your blessed thighs until I come all over them and make them _mine_.”

“Both,” Aziraphale says. He yanks his hand back and uses it to tug Crowley down. His thighs wrap around Crowley’s hips; their cocks press and throb against each other. They both moan. “Fuck my thighs. When you’re finished, I can sit you on my cock and fuck you.”

Crowley’s eyes go wide. “Since when do you swear?”

“Since you made me come in a cinema and told me you had a plan for how I fucked you the first time.” Aziraphale squeezes his legs, grinding their bodies together again, and groans. “How—oh, how do you want me?”

Crowley wants him on his side, apparently, so that Crowley can sidle up behind him and slip his hard cock between Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale snaps his fingers at the same time that Crowley does, and they end up with far more lubricant than is strictly necessary.

Crowley doesn’t seem to mind, though. He closes Aziraphale’s legs, clamping his prick between them, and his first tentative thrust brings a muffled squelch and a whimper so lovely that Aziraphale can’t help but echo it.

It’s not a position that Aziraphale personally would choose for their first time. He has to twist his spine to see Crowley, and even then the view leaves something to be desired. He sees Crowley’s thin shoulder, the top of his arm where it’s wrapped around Aziraphale’s chest, and part of his clenched jaw, the deep crinkles at the corner of one golden eye.

But Crowley wants it, so Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to complain. And it feels magnificent, to be held so close, to have Crowley muffling his cries in the back of Aziraphale’s neck, to have Crowley’s cock sliding back and forth over the most sensitive bit of Aziraphale’s inner thighs.

“Oh,” Crowley gasps, “fuck.” He grips Aziraphale’s pec, skating his thumbnail over Aziraphale’s nipple, and Aziraphale arches and squeezes his thighs tighter with a shout. “_Fuck_. Angel.”

Aziraphale grasps at the duvet with one hand and Crowley’s hair with the other. He means only to keep himself from being scooted across the bed as Crowley thrusts harder. Then Crowley utters another “_Fuck_, angel,” sounding helpless with pleasure, and Aziraphale tugs at Crowley’s hair immediately and without remorse, until Crowley lets out a whining “Uhnn” and warmth spills between Aziraphale’s thighs.

With every pulse of his cock, Crowley whines again, and his whole body trembles and seems to meld further into Aziraphale’s. By the time he’s spent, there’s scarcely a millimetre of space between them. Aziraphale gentles his touch, petting lightly at Crowley’s scalp as Crowley pants into his nape.

“Ah, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley says eventually. “That was humiliating. I can last longer, I promise, I just—”

“My dear, shut up.”

Aziraphale rolls away, opening his thighs and surveying the mess between them. Crowley’s come is thick and sticky, and as he smears it experimentally against his skin, he feels nothing but delight and that beloved spark of pleasure. He is Crowley’s, and from this moment on he decides he will never be anything else.

“If you get yourself off rubbing my come against you,” Crowley says, sounding choked as he watches, “it might discorporate me. Fair warning.”

It hurts Aziraphale to stop, not to keep massaging until, yes, he gets off, but he does it anyway. Crowley has a plan—_they _have a plan—and he will see it through. _Giving_, he reminds himself. _Not just taking, taking, taking._

Although, really, does it count as _giving _when he’s talking about letting Crowley ride him?

“Right,” Aziraphale says, lying on his back.

Crowley doesn’t hesitate to climb atop him now that he’s in the position for it. Aziraphale moves to hold his hips, to help his steady him, and realises his hand is still sticky with Crowley’s ejaculate. _Well_, he thinks, _you did want to taste him, didn’t you?_

He brings his hand to his mouth and licks it clean. It’s not the most pleasant thing his tongue has encountered, but neither is it the most unpleasant. Tastes a bit sulphur-y, which he supposes makes sense. He still laps up every drop and hums his approval while Crowley stares down at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“Nng. Bless,” says Crowley, rising onto his knees and grabbing Aziraphale’s cock, wiping all thought from Aziraphale’s head. “You’re…impossible. How can anyone be so fucking perfect?”

He sits back suddenly. Aziraphale has a moment to return to himself and fret and insist, “Wait, wait, you need to—” but then the point is moot. He’s inside Crowley, who isn’t tight and dry as Aziraphale expected but wet and loose and utterly divine as Aziraphale sinks into him.

He’s needed this, Aziraphale realises, struck dumb by the sheer magnitude of sensation. Bugger the thighs and the rubbing and the come. He’s needed to be as close to Crowley as two human-looking bodies can be, to have all of Crowley astride him and weighing him into the mattress. To have Crowley gazing down at him like Aziraphale was the one who created the stars and hung them in the sky for Crowley alone.

_I would_, Aziraphale thinks. _I haven’t the faintest idea how, but I would make a nebula just for him. The precise shade of his eyes when it’s seen from Earth._

Crowley shimmies slightly, almost tentatively, and gives a weak hitch of his hips—Aziraphale bites his lip but doesn’t manage to hold in a shattered “Ohh”—and then he falls forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale caresses his hair, his back, and kisses his temple. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Fine, just—” Crowley lifts his head, and his muscles clench around Aziraphale’s shaft. Aziraphale gulps, and Crowley’s eyes go hazy. “Change of plans. I want you to use me.”

“What?”

“Use me. Anything you want, just as long as it ends with your come up me.” As though to illustrate, he rocks backwards, taking Aziraphale even deeper and grinding his arse against Aziraphale’s pelvis. Then, as if that wasn’t enough to dash all of Aziraphale’s doubts, he moans, “Uhnn. Fucking Heaven, you’re thick.”

Gripping Crowley’s hips to hold him in place, Aziraphale lifts up and then rolls until Crowley is the one lying on his back on the bed. Aziraphale pauses a moment, to see if Crowley has any complaints, but Crowley only wraps his legs around Aziraphale and tips his head back with a little whining cry.

As written invitations go, Aziraphale finds it utterly impossible to refuse. He sits back on his haunches, raising Crowley’s arse a bit, and clutches Crowley’s waist as he lets go and fucks him.

Aziraphale holds little back, spurred by the way Crowley’s expression goes slack with rapture and he bites his lip and sobs in his throat. He likes it. He wants it. Perhaps he even _needs _it, as Aziraphale does.

“Yes,” Crowley says. His voice shakes with Aziraphale’s thrusts. “Yes. Yes.”

Aziraphale comes frightfully quickly, and feels a flush of the same humiliation that Crowley must’ve felt before. _It doesn’t matter_, he tells himself. _There’s time. There’s all the time in the world for us._

Crowley is hard again, arching and trembling as Aziraphale pulls out. Resolving to never leave him wanting—_Never again. You’ve done enough of that for both of us, haven’t you?_—Aziraphale replaces his cock with two fingers and kneels to suck Crowley into his mouth.

His tongue explores the length of those lovely veins, worries the fraenulum gently, and dips into the little slit at the tip. Crowley gasps and shudders and clings to Aziraphale’s hair. Inside, he is obscenely wet and open, and he keeps clenching down and rolling his hips, trying to take Aziraphale’s fingers deeper and deeper.

Crowley comes with a soft whimper, and Aziraphale drinks him down eagerly.

_Love you_, Aziraphale thinks. _Love you, love you. I’m yours._

“Give me those,” Crowley says the moment Aziraphale pulls off and slips out.

He snatches Aziraphale’s wrist and takes Aziraphale’s fingers into his mouth. His eyelashes flutter as he sucks, not quite a blink but as close as he can get without trying.

“Good,” Crowley mutters, when the only thing Aziraphale’s hand is wet with any longer is saliva. “You don’t taste perfect. I was starting to wonder if there was anything about you that wasn’t.”

Aziraphale is too happy to be put off, but he affects mild offence anyway. “I beg your pardon.”

“Think it’s all the wine.” Crowley smacks his lips, clearly exaggerating. “I feel a bit drunk now, actually.”

He’s as happy as Aziraphale is. His limbs are loose with it, reaching for and curling around Aziraphale without hesitation. And his smile—oh, it’s _that _smile. Aziraphale has only ever seen it when it’s just the two of him, he realises. He wonders if that makes it _his _smile.

“I adore you,” Aziraphale says. His tone comes out heavy and fervent, perhaps a bit too much so, considering how early they are in their romance. Crowley does get so tetchy about emotions.

But Crowley’s beautiful smile only deepens, until he’s glowing almost as bright as a star. “Yeah? That’s fortunate. ’Cause I adore your thighs.”

“Oh? Well then, I adore your arsehole.”

It feels ridiculous to say, but Crowley’s peal of laughter is well worth the foolishness.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] These Captive Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20736452) by [jellyfishfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishfire/pseuds/jellyfishfire)


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